


Off the Map - China

by gelfling



Series: Off the Map [2]
Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Gen, M/M, Slow Burn, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9578351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gelfling/pseuds/gelfling
Summary: Short collection of drabbles and moments within Blood of Tyrants.Laurence is not quite as oblivious as he seems, but he is also not as liberty to do as he would like, either.  Tharkay, in the mean time, does not expect anything more.





	

***

It was more disheartening than frightening to think he might be murdered slowly in the dark, deep underground, by Chinese soldiers who had mistaken his identity and purpose. 

 

It was perhaps better than dying of exposure and starvation in the high wilderness, or the desert, and Tharkay had come close enough to that a few times to reconcile himself with so quiet and unremarked a death under the stars, but at least the elements had never mistaken him for a British officer.

 

Which, technically, he was, but for slightly different reasons than normal.

 

He flinched when the door swung open, the burn marks still itching on his stomach and arms, the lashes on his back warm with fever.  He was not quite past the point of pride, but there was no longer any point in pretending to be disaffected, not with the way he had screamed himself hoarse the last…time? 

 

He had lost track of time, of the hours and days.

 

“Tenzing,” the light spoke in a familiar voice. 

 

Perhaps he had died, and simply neglected to notice.

 

***

While crossing the Taklamakan desert, Laurence had been well convinced of Tharkay’s duplicitous nature when events seem to fall into his hands, precisely as he wanted them to; who else but a spy or brazen traitor would be so meticulous, so well prepared for so little profit? 

 

Later, after words, harsh words, and Words that eventually morphed into genuine understanding, that Laurence considered that Tharkay was by nature meticulous, well-researched, and ingenious.

 

At times he seemed his own sorcerer, conjuring twenty dragons when most needed, tracking an invisible trail through Australia’s barren and empty scrubland, finding Laurence alive in an attic in a village on fire, when he was supposed to be at the bottom of the ocean on the _Goliath_.

 

Tharkay did not look impressive or mysterious at the moment, liberally covered in burns and bruises, his fingers in splints.  He was barely recognizable, and his hair was shot with gray.

 

Laurence sat quietly inside Tharkay’s tent, partly to ensure his health did not worsen, and partly to listen in peace to the rattling in his own head, as memories bounced and appeared in his mind.

 

He was not given to superstition; even before the last eight years had returned to him, Laurence had known this about himself.  Superstition served no legitimate purpose, often obfuscated a problem, and led to a worrying distraction which broke down discipline.  Laurence had no patience for it, and had never seen the point in indulging what truly boiled down to nothing more than a whimsical fancy.

 

And yet…it had not been Temeraire, who had stirred his mind.  The dragon was, quite literally, his dearest companion, until the end of his days—Laurence admitted there had been something oddly familiar about the beast, something sweetly easy about their conversations and his curious company, which soothed him more than far more than anything else.  Even Granby, his first lieutenant and oldest companion present, raised no real familiarity in him.

 

Tenzing had barely said thirty words to him, alone.

 

Although…there was no understanding the workings of the human mind, what caused it to break and what caused it to mend.

 

And yet…

 

Laurence sat, his hands clasped in his lap, and tried not to think.

 

Roland— _Jane_ Roland, Admiral Roland, his commander, lover, and friend—had once called Tharkay a modern-day Merlin, for being able to talk dragons out of trees, against their better interests, for being able to do the impossible with little more than his own wit and will—

 

And Laurence remembered being lost once, in his own mind again but this time by his own doing, as he had killed and—no, as he had _murdered_ French soldiers who had likely signed up for the coin and lack of options, soldiers who had asked for mercy, surrendered, likely peasants and ordinary men no more guilty of the war than the British farmer, and he had murdered them anyway because that—

 

Because—

 

Even now, he could not completely remember. 

 

He did not remember what his rational was then, or if he had even bothered with such conceits; only a vague aching and hurting, as if he were floundering in a storm alone, and too tired and empty to care if he made shore or drowned in the cold dark, so long as the storm would finally _end_ —

 

Tenzing had been on one knee, before him, in the tent.  The wooden chair Laurence had collapsed in was hard, unevenly balanced; he could hear the dragons’ deep murmur outside the tent and the smell of cooking fires; Tenzing’s hand on his cheek was very warm. 

 

For the life of him, Laurence could not determine if it had been anger or sorrow or regret in his dark eyes, only that he could not look away.

 

“I wish you would not let them use you so.”

 

\--Though the storm had still raged and he had still been frozen and damp, his mind shuttered and still, there had been a tug of the anchor.  He was not yet close to home, shore, but at least now he knew which way the course lay—

 

Tharkay had risen, Laurence remembered vaguely, taken his hand away, and allowed Laurence to cry without word or judgment, and had never mentioned the event since.

 

They had played piquet, and whist, with Granby joining on occasion to try his hand, the long stinking voyage to Australia.  Laurence had been trying not to think, not to flounder, while Tenzing had been his quiet anchor, beating him easily at cards with the quiet grace of a gentleman used to more proficient prey—or of a card sharp, cheating whenever Laurence’s attention wandered badly.  Laurence had never been certain which it was, as the conversation wandered over the globe and the rum flowed. 

 

If they had been playing for money he would have easily been beggared, but Tenzing had only sought his attention, his distraction, and had never asked for anything in return…

 

Miracles were not an uncommon gift of Tharkay’s, if erratically given, and he had given Laurence back his mind more than once.

 

Absentmindedly, Laurence slid his fingers over the bandages covering Tharkay’s own, careful to keep his touch light, harmless—the damage to the bones and tendons seemed extensive.  Still, Laurence could feel a slight warmth through the wrappings; more than he might ask for.

 

The thought could barely be borne.  Granted, he was not the man he was, eight years ago, but to have changed so _much_ —

 

Of course…Tharkay had done very well out of his association with Laurence, more than others, certainly.  He had the prize money from the ferals, his commission, a portion of any prizes the ferals might take while he rode them, Temeraire’s aerial aid in hunting the smugglers in New South Wales: so it was not _illogical_ , Tharkay’s somewhat curious loyalty to Laurence, but it did feel slightly amiss…

 

His smile was but a small quirk of his lips, tilted at the corner, but it rarely failed to relax Laurence, to assure him that somehow, despite appearances, all _would_ be well.

 

Whether it was in Istanbul, Prussia, Australia, or in England herself…

 

So perhaps…

 

Laurence sat, and clutched his hands in his lap.  By rights, he should feel quite guilty, ashamed, to be thinking such things…

 

But perhaps it was stranger that it had taken him so long, to work it out for himself.

 

***

The flight from Peking to Russia would be several days more, and the cold and damp on Temeraire’s back would not have been pleasant in the best conditions.  As it was, Tharkay was so bundled up in blankets and coats that he was incapable of moving, while the chill of the speeding flight slipped through the cloth anyway.  He could hardly expect otherwise, while strapped to the dragon’s back.

 

It was comforting, in a way, to know that he was unlikely to become more miserable or pained than he was now, and it was merely a matter of waiting for the light to fade for Temeraire to land.  If he needed a moment of humor, all he needed to do was remember that he had _volunteered_ to do this.

 

It was not until the fourth day of travelling so—or perhaps the sixth?  Tharkay hoped it was speed and lingering illness warping his sense of time, and not some more malingering effect of his imprisonment—that his cheeks and neck started to feel warm again, as the fever took him.

 

Thankfully there were precious few to notice his stupor—what was one sick man compared to the onset of invasion?  They could not afford to stop on his behalf, nor would he have wanted to—but a more visceral part of him cursed the blinding wind between wingbeats, as he would have gladly sacrificed his pride for a drink of water.

 

Laurence—predictably—was coldly furious on discovery; or at least, he was to the best of Tharkay’s recollections, which tended to be soft and fever-warm.  Tharkay had found himself swiftly hustled off to another sickbed before the dragons had even begun their supper, in one of China’s rather well-provisioned depots.

 

He was reasonably sure, nevertheless, that he had made an unflattering comparison between the captain and his dragon, who were both, “Vile and fearsome nursemaids, bullying about with the main difference being tonnage…and I did not harness you.  But you both are rather imperious, I note.”

 

While he prided himself on his mind, Tharkay did not think he could have imagined Laurence’s resulting expression—a mix of worry, bafflement, and amusement.  He was even less certain of his words having any present connection to his mind.  Then Laurence grinned, apparently choosing to be amused—so Tharkay’s circumstances could not seem too dire.

 

Laurence had a beautiful smile, too rarely given.  There were a few strands of blond hair loose from the flight that Laurence had hurriedly pushed behind one ear.

 

“If you were a woman, you would have born me a child three months ago,” Tharkay enunciated clearly, trying to avoid giving any indication of how the room seemed to swing, or how ungainly his tongue felt.  Nevertheless, he was quite certain he would have found a way to bed Laurence much sooner in their relationship, if he had been able to rely on traditional methods of seduction and courtship.

 

“I beg your pardon,” Laurence replied, clearly attempting to argue the obvious.

 

“The physician deemed me well enough to travel, and I’ve come too far to stop.”

 

He had not been able to properly assess the Chinese stopping point, and wondered how many depots the kingdom had, along this route; he had rarely gone this far north, and never in such a direct route, before.  Nevertheless, he would find a way to follow along, if Laurence did decide to do something as foolish as leave him behind; but even feverish, Tharkay could not pretend it would be easy.

  
Laurence seemed to move dizzyingly fast; he was kneeling next to Tharkay’s cot in an instant, brow furrowed, “Actually, he did not, Tenzing, and even if he had would be disinclined to believe him,” here Laurence pressed his palm against his forehead, the skin leathery from flying and callused.  Tharkay closed his eyes. 

 

“I have asked too much of you already, and at least here I know you will be well cared for.”

  
  
“Do not be ridiculous, I will not suffer strangers taking off my clothes; you shall do that, for me.”  Laurence coughed—or perhaps choked.

 

_Until my hands have healed sufficient for me to manage_ , Tharkay neglected to add, though he had intended to sound flippant, dismissive.  He was aware he was being too presumptuous; Laurence did not have the time to play nursemaid.  It was difficult to think, to focus with Laurence’s hand on him—for once not professional or in a brief handshake of friendship and departure—this felt almost of genuine affection—every touch was too brief—

 

“You are raving, Tenzing.”

 

“Hardly; merely tired and incautious,” this was true, but no one needed to know that, and he ought to have stopped talking ten minutes ago, “But I will not stay here, alone.  And you cannot delay.”

  
If Laurence did choose to leave him behind—unlikely—he would have to find another method of travel, and hope the Chinese dragons would not have reason or orders against carrying him.  He might have imagined Laurence’s sigh, along with some uncharitable remarks about his person and temperament.

 

He did not think he imagined the fingers running through his hair, or the noise of the camp rousing in the gray hours of dawn, of Laurence’s body rising after being pressed firm to his, his hair gray in the light.


End file.
